I was permitted by god one good fight & seldom a gal
whereas back in the cave scuttles my one good pal.
Here I’ve tokens of appreciation, shining, thumb-tossed
& benevolent, am I. Shame on the cynical
& those who hate women that cannot read their minds
(great as they may be). But it is their loss
to turn their backs to me. Do dare.
The wolf was never a figure of masculinity
neither was he big nor bad by any means.
I’m still a piglet puffing up a tough scare,
a reluctant witness to the pathetic scene,
growing ever thinner from obscurity.
Is there enough city in this poem? I can tell
in one long, frantic & complicated breath
that some time ago we had loved. I was behind the wheel
with my infant verse. I had done so well
to hide them within the pockets of my breast,
two hundred or so sonnets on how I feel.
